Abbey Gardener
I see you from a distance,
a figure from another age,
under a sweltering sky.
I weigh up your watering cans,
your coat of loden green,
your waistcoat, double-breasted, every button different,
straw hat wide-brimmed, shadowing your face.
Why place yourself so picturesquely here?
I approve your presence, you perfect
a perfect view, foreground to abbey walls,
their slabs of shadow dark on flawless lawns.
A travelling gardener you say you are.
You’ll spend a few months here, and then move on.
You used to play the tuba in an orchestra.
You no longer have a wife.
Turned vagabond, your old life
grown too small or worn too thin,
are you searching for a new persona,
embodying a pastoral ideal?
Or perhaps an honest journeyman, your waistcoat
marks your status, craft and task?
Or is the Benedictine cross pinned to your hat
a sign of pilgrimage, your search for grace?
The darkened patch you watered is full
of the sweetness of geraniums and roses,
and the smell of wet earth.
Pam Stocker has facilitated local poetry and writing groups for many years, performs at open mikes and leads creative retreats. She loves collaboration and community, and gets pleasure from facilitating the writing of others, whether they consider themselves creative or not. She worked as an English teacher and retrained as a Gestalt counsellor. Now she has more time, she is writing and arting, sailing, cycling, walking and doing ballet. Faith, for her in a Christian tradition, brings with it the potential for growth and depth, making way always for both ambiguity and trust.
Amethyst Review 